The Argument
by LouBlue
Summary: Sherlock & Joan are arguing. The major issue being for Sherlock is that he's not exactly sure what they're arguing about. Captain Gregson attempts to help, but when that goes poorly, Sherlock is on his own with only his deep understanding of women to sooth troubled waters. So, basically he's screwed. Rating upped to account for the frequent use of the words 'turtle sphincter'.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N** **: Hello all, second Elementary fic with this one. I had so much fun with the first one, I just had to go there again. I have this giant thing for dialogue and snarky, grumpy Englishmen… so, here we are.**

 **Now, I originally promised you a sequel to 'The Bad Day' and started writing that, but got sucked into another scenario that I couldn't resist jotting down. I just love the thought of these two bickering and Holmes' basic ineptness at human interactions. That's endlessly amusing to me. Plus, I've just realized how funny Elementary is. Yes, this is another fandom I'm writing for where I've only watched a handful of episodes, so I'm kind of guessing at some of the finer details of the relationship, and the history, but I just love Holme's random rudeness and quirkiness. That's uber sexy to me. Lol**

 **So, of course, I just had to give him free reign to be a bit of a dick in this story, but hopefully an entertaining one. Once again I tried for a one shot, but it's going to be a two shot, because Holmes is a chatty buggar. Also, it's international Fanfic Writer Appreciation Day today, which is awesome and I've received some lovely notes from people, which just makes me want to pay it forward.**

 **Hope you have as much fun with this as I did writing it…**

 **THE ARGUMENT**

A woman has the last word in any argument.

Anything a man says after that is the beginning of a new argument.

~Anonymous~

(For reasons which are most likely self-evident)

 **CHAPTER ONE**

Sherlock sat at his kitchen table, dividing his attention between looking at the case file strewn out in front of him, Captain Gregson talking to him about that case, and the doorway to the kitchen. Under the table his left leg jiggled in a little dance of irritation, while a finger tapped on the table. Otherwise his outward expression was set in its usual stoic countenance.

"Am I boring you?" asked Gregson flatly, after catching him looking at his watch and then the door once again.

Sherlock didn't look up from the paperwork he was studying. "No more than usual," he said dismissively.

"Walked into that one, I guess," said Gregson in resignation. "You seem distracted."

"I'm not," said Sherlock tersely.

There was a pause. "Where's Joan?"

"Out for a walk."

"I've been here for over an hour. How long ago did she go out?"

Sherlock consulted his watch, even though he didn't need to, because he knew exactly how long it had been. "Four hours, thirty-eight minutes, eighteen seconds."

"That's some walk."

"Not really," said Sherlock coolly. "There are many nomadic tribes like the Australian Aborigines who walk for days without stop. In fact, the Apache Indians are well documented as to have routinely walked forty miles a day."

"So, what, Joan's run off and joined a group of wandering Apache Indians? Is that what I'm hearing?"

Sherlock flicked a peeved look his way. "Of course she hasn't. Don't be ridiculous."

"But she is out walking for nearly five hours now. You know it's getting dark outside." Gregson was studying him intently. "Are you worried about her?"

"I am confident in Watson's ability to ambulate safely around the streets of New York," he said off-handedly.

"She's probably in Poughkeepsie right now, if she walked in a straight line."

That earned him another less than impressed look. "Yes, very droll, Captain." Sherlock went back to reading the case file in front of him.

Gregson sat back in his chair. "Okay, what did you do?"

"I have no idea what you're referring to," he said shortly.

"A woman goes on a five hour walk, then you've done something," said Gregson confidently. He cocked his head at Sherlock. "So, what was it? What did you do? I mean, it's got to be pretty bad. That woman's got the patience of a saint when it comes to you."

"And what about the patience I extend her?" said Sherlock with real ire. "Why do no sainthoods abound for me with what I have to put up with her incessant idiosyncrasies?"

"You mean the fact Joan is an intelligent, articulate woman who cares very deeply about people? Or is it the fact she's kind and giving and endlessly patient? Are those the horrors you have to live with every day?"

"Living with someone overflowing with the milk of human kindness can be somewhat grating, you know," he said defensively.

"As opposed to living with a narcissistic, self-involved, self-destructive recovering addict, which is obviously every woman's fantasy," said Gregson straight-faced.

"The term self-involved is deemed redundant when referring to narcissism," sniffed Sherlock.

"And an annoying know-it-all, forgot that one."

Sherlock inclined his head, unbothered by the judgement. "Your summation of my character is not an inaccurate one, Captain, but seeing as Watson was in full knowledge and understanding of my short-comings when agreeing to continue living here, it is wholly unfair of her to hold those things against me now."

"What is she holding against you exactly?"

Sherlock's lips tightened. "I do not know," he admitted begrudgingly.

"You don't know why you two are fighting?" asked Gregson in disbelief.

"Watson didn't see fit to impart such information upon me, so, no, the source of her ire remains a mystery to me." A mystery Sherlock had been racking his brains to work out in the last four and a half hours, but nothing was coming to him.

"Oh come on, don't give me that, you must have an idea of what she's upset about? I imagine Joan puts up with a lot from you. You must be able to think of something out of the ordinary obnoxious that you've done."

"And yet, I can't," he huffed. "And if anyone is being obnoxious at this moment, it's Watson."

"Okay, when did it start? When did you first realize that there was a problem?"

"This morning, when her conversation with me was monosyllabic in nature. I just assumed she'd slept poorly." Sherlock pursed his lips. "Although the matter may have started earlier. Last night she was untypically lackluster in her responses to me, and she retired early. I assumed tiredness was the reason."

"Maybe she's not mad at you," said Gregson wryly. "Listening to you talk, maybe she's just gotten a bad dose of sleeping sickness?"

"The tsetse fly is not endemic to New York," dismissed Sherlock. He looked suddenly thoughtful. "But maybe there is another type of malaise which is putting her in such dour spirits?" That was an inappropriately reassuring thought to Sherlock, as he really didn't want to be the cause of Joan's unhappiness if it could be at all avoided.

"Stop wishing Joan dying of something, and just face the fact the bug she has up her ass is most likely going to be you."

Sherlock raised both of his eyebrows at the other man. "That was untypically uncouth of you, Captain."

"Yeah, well, I've been trapped inside a small room with you for over an hour. The couthness is the first thing which is going to go."

Sherlock wasn't offended by that observation. It wasn't exactly the first time he'd heard it, after all. Besides, as he was struggling to understand the nature of the misstep between himself Joan, the man might yet prove useful to him. "Captain, if I may beg a moment of insight from your good self. You have been married for a long time, and during that time, you have shown yourself to be woefully inadequate as a partner to your wife, as evidenced by your recent estrangement-"

Gregson's eyes narrowed. "You remember I carry a gun, right?"

Sherlock continued on as though the other man hadn't spoken. "But you have not yet divorced, which leads me to believe that you and your wife still believe there lies enough between you both to cobble together some semblance of a life whereby you could continue to endure each other's presence in a life of cohabitation-"

"I could just haul off and shot you right now, and all I'd have to do is make sure the judge and jury trying me for it actually knew you, and then I'd just walk free," offered up Gregson, almost conversationally.

"I'm trying to pay you a compliment, Captain," said Sherlock, a little miffed at the other man's rudeness.

"Did you try and pay Joan a compliment? Maybe that's why her shoes were suddenly made for walking."

"Watson's shoes are never made for walking," he said moodily. "They're ridiculously high-heeled and provide no kind of arch support whatsoever." Sherlock moved his shoulders a little. "Although, in the interest of fairness, her running shoes are infinitely practical and suited for their purpose."

"I'm sure that's a huge source of relief for her to know you approve of her running shoes," said Gregson sarcastically.

Sherlock looked him up and down. "I am uncertain as to where this attitude is coming from when I am attempting to ask you for help. It is quite churlish of you, Captain."

"You just called me a failure as a husband," he exclaimed.

"Yes, but in amongst that failure you show an admirable relentlessness and unwillingness to allow the crushing reality of your situation to impede upon the most likely unattainable goal of returned intimacy between yourself and Cheryl."

"I am literally seconds away from punching you in the throat right now."

"I have no idea why that would be, as I am paying you a compliment."

"No, Holmes, the natural response of a person when they get a compliment is to say thank you. My first instinct to your version of a compliment is to work out where I can stash the body after shooting you in the face." Gregson leant over the table. "I know you have issues with social cues, so, here's a heads up – don't make people want to shoot you in the face when you are trying to ask a favor of them."

"I'm not telling you anything you're not already perfectly cognizant of with regards to your wife," said Sherlock in irritation.

"Just because someone's _perfectly_ _cognizant_ of something, doesn't mean they want to hear it talked about like we're discussing the weather," said Gregson sharply.

Sherlock inclined his head. "My apologies if I've offended, Captain. That was not my intention."

"I know, which frankly, is the most horrifying part of this conversation."

"So, you have no insight to offer in regards to this situation with Watson?"

"Not really, I just know I'm on her side, whatever it is."

Sherlock made an offended face. "What if she is accusing me unjustly?"

Gregson shrugged. "I find that hard to believe, and even if she was, I'm sure there are a lot of things that Joan should have been pissed off about when it comes to you, but she let it slide. You owe her this."

"So, what, I am to take any form of punishment, warranted or not, as a form of penance for who I am as a person?" asked Sherlock indignantly.

"Pretty much."

Sherlock glared at him. "Watson is being childish and petty and I won't be forced to kowtow to her whims in my own house."

"Then I guess you're screwed," said Gregson calmly. "A relationship is give and take. You have to be able to take crap, as well as give it."

Sherlock squinted at him. "I thought you were going in an entirely different direction with that give and take rhetoric, Captain."

"Sure, people like to talk about it the other way round, you have to be able to give in a relationship, but trust me, Holmes, you got to be able to take it to, because sometimes stuff happens between two people and there is no easy right or wrong, or even if there is, sometimes you've just got to be the bigger person." Gregson held his gaze steadily. "Joan is human. Sometimes human beings get pissed off. We need to have those feelings, whether they're justified or not, because either way, it feels real to us. No matter which way this goes down, who is right or wrong, just try and man up and be gracious about it. You want my advice, that's it. Don't be a dick, Sherlock. Joan is the best thing that has ever or will ever happen to you. She's stayed in your life when frankly no one else would have bothered."

"So, accept culpability of a crime I have no knowledge of," said Sherlock skeptically. "That seems overly deceitful."

"It'd be better if you knew what it was you'd done," agreed Gregson. "You should really try and figure that out."

"I am attempting to do that," said Holmes in frustration. "But I am drawing a blank."

"Have you asked Joan what's wrong?"

"I pointed out she was coming up on her periods, and that might be the reason for her ill-humor."

Gregson grimaced. "Why aren't you dead already?" he asked in genuine confusion. "I mean, your super power is pissing people off. How is it that one of them just hasn't up and killed you in your sleep already?"

"I'm a light sleeper."

"You should retain that ability… or work on being less of an insensitive jerk."

Sherlock inclined his head, acknowledging the advice. "I think we both know the more realistic goal for me lies within the continued light sleeping ability."

"Well, obviously. The other thing was just a moment of unfounded optimism in regards to you. Don't worry, it's passed now."

"Thank heavens."

Gregson pointed a finger towards the case files. "You right to do this, what with how things are between you and Joan right now?"

"Of course," said Sherlock dismissively. "I am sure Watson will have come to her senses after a bracing walk, and all of this will be behind us now." At least that was what he was hoping.

There was the sound of the front door being opened and footsteps in the foyer.

"Guess you're about to find out." Gregson stood up. "I'll give you two a moment."

Sherlock stood up as well, following the other man out of the kitchen.

Joan was in the process of taking off her coat. She smiled up at Gregson. "Hello, Captain."

Gregson smiled back. "Joan. Enjoy your walk?"

Her gaze flicked to Sherlock and then back to him. "I enjoyed the peace and quiet… and lack of intrusion."

Sherlock scowled at her silent dig. In what way was he intrusive? If anything it was the other way round. It was Joan who'd intruded upon his life, unsettled all of his habits, forcing him to make new ones. Arguably healthier ones, but that was hardly the point. "It was getting late." Sherlock didn't like how that sounded like he'd been keeping track of the time. He hastily jabbed a finger at Gregson. "The Captain was getting worried."

"The _Captain_ needn't have bothered," said Joan in such a way that told him she knew full well it wasn't the Captain who'd been worrying.

"Yes, well, the man has a tendency to be boorish in regards to not listening to reason," said Sherlock coolly.

"Okay," sighed Gregson, "the urge to kill is rising again. I think that's my cue to leave."

"I know the feeling," said Joan flatly.

"Just what is it that I've done which has you in such a foul mood, Watson?" he demanded to know.

"You don't know?" asked Joan in disbelief. "Is that what you're expecting me to believe?"

"Yes, because it happens to be the truth."

Joan's eyes went wide. "You can't be serious right now. You know exactly what you've done. Don't act dumb with me."

"Are we really sure it's an act?" offered up Gregson straight-faced. "Because I've got to be honest, I've had my doubts for a long time now."

Sherlock threw him a dark look. "Yes, thank you for your input, Captain. As edifying as always." He suddenly snapped his fingers at Joan, as a thought came to him. "I have it! You are upset about me telling that stockbroker you were gay, and would not be interested in going out to dinner with him."

"Joan's eyes went wide. "You did what?" she gasped.

"That interminably dull little fellow, with the glasses," said Sherlock easily. "We met him on the Marlow case. He rang last week while you were out, but as I already knew you would grow bored of him after no more than two dates, I made your excuses, so as not to waste everyone's time."

Gregson looked at Joan. "Just so you know, I have a gun you can borrow. Completely untraceable. No questions asked."

Joan nodded her head at Gregson. "Good to know." She then glared at Sherlock. "Don't fast forward my life!" she snapped. "Who I see and how bored I get is none of your business!"

"I was just trying to truncate what was going to be a waste of your time, Watson. You have vast resources which can be deployed in far more fruitful ways.

"I'll deploy my vast resources in any way I please," she threw back at him. "That's none of your business."

"I see the error of my ways, and will undertake to not interfere in your love life in the future, no matter how misguided your decisions might be." Sherlock smiled brightly at her. "And now I have apologized for my transgression, may we please resume our cohabitation norm, Watson? I'm finding your continued peevishness to be rather trying."

"Wow, look at that, his apologies are worse than his compliments." Gregson shook his head. "Would not have thought that was possible."

Joan glared up at him. "That _wasn't_ an apology, and that _isn't_ what I am upset about."

"Oh," said Sherlock, a little crestfallen. He looked at her intently. "Are you sure the stockbroker thing wasn't it, Watson? Because that was very high handed of me—" Sherlock looked at the disapproving expression on Gregson's face. "Apparently." Another thought occurred to him. "It's the credit card I took out in your name to garner contraband for the Morrison case. You've just found out and now you're miffed at me."

Joan looked confused. "What credit card? What contraband?"

"Oh, ah, never mind, it's not important," said Sherlock swiftly.

"You know," said Gregson dryly, "I don't get to say this very often in my line of work, but seriously, Holmes, you need to stop confessing to random things. There is no plea bargain in the world which is going to be able to dig you out of this hole at the rate you're going."

Sherlock gave the other man a wilting look. "Whilst I'm obviously thrilled my hole is of any interest to you, Captain, weren't you leaving? I'm sure there must be pressing crime scenes which require you to stand over and look puzzled until more competent people come along to point out the obvious to you."

"Mmhm," said Gregson, unimpressed at Sherlock's put down. He looked at Joan with real sympathy and then mouthed the word 'untraceable' at her. Gregson then nodded at both of them. "I'll see whichever one of you survives this throw down tomorrow." He collected his coat from the coat rack. "And just for the record, my money is on Joan. What she lacks in upper body strength, I think she's going to make up with the inevitable rising blood lust caused by being in your presence, Holmes."

Sherlock grunted at him. "Very amusing, Captain. Please ensure you close the door securely on your way out."

"Happily and with a great sense of relief that I get to leave." He gave one last encouraging smile at Joan, and then was heading out the door.

Sherlock didn't really notice. All of his attention was on Joan. "Alright, we agree it's not the stockbroker incident, because apparently you were unaware of it."

"I just can't believe you don't know what I'm upset about, Sherlock," said Joan tersely. "I mean, I know this is you we're talking about, but still, even you can't be this obtuse."

"And yet, here we are." Sherlock let his frustration show on his face. "I think it's wildly unfair of you to take issue with me over a slight I remain completely in the dark about."

"You're the world's greatest detective," she snapped. "At least that's what you tell everyone who asks, and a lot of people who don't. You can look at a person and know their second aunt had a pet chinchilla with a lazy eye named Gary, or that they've got an allergy to nuts because they're wearing a brown hat and speak in a Norwegian accent, and yet you expect me to believe you don't know what you've done?"

"In those instances I had clues to work with," said Sherlock in irritation. "You ask me to hypothesis on a matter in a vacuum, with no supporting data. How am I meant to ascertain my supposed transgression under those conditions?"

"How about the fact you were there, in that vacuum, while doing the transgressing?" she asked, voice rising. "That it was you doing the thing I'm upset about! How's that for a big fat old clue?"

"So, I did something," reasoned Sherlock slowly, eyes narrowing as he tried to read her expression.

"Unbelievable!"

"Or _didn't_ do something?" offered up Sherlock uncertainly, still grappling for some kind of foothold in this argument so he could know what it was they were actually fighting about.

Joan glared at him, then turned on her heel and started to march up the stairs.

"Or did something, but not the right way?" he shouted up after her. "Or, I did it the right way, but it wasn't the right thing?"

"Stop talking!" she ordered him as she continued to storm up the stairs. "You're only making this worse."

Sherlock bounded up after her, taking the stairs three at a time. "Or, I did the right thing, thinking it was the right thing at the time, but hindsight has rendered it in actuality as the wrong thing." He was hot on Joan's heels as she disappeared into her room, slamming the door practically in his face. "Am I getting warm?" he called out to her through the door.

"If you don't know what you've done, then there is seriously no hope for you," she bit out.

Sherlock scratched at his cheek, wrinkling his nose. He needed to regroup, and perhaps take up Gregson's advice. He paused for what he hoped would seem like a reflective moment to Joan before launching into his best facsimile of a sincere apology. "I'm sorry, Watson, of course I know what I did wrong, and it was puerile of me to toy with you over the matter. Forgive my warped sense of humor, and my act of betrayal. I think we both know what I did was unforgivable, but I throw myself upon your bounteous mercies to do so anyways."

"You still don't know what you did, do you?"

"Of course I do," said Sherlock with as much indignation he could muster, which was a surprising amount, given he was lying through his teeth.

"Then what are you apologizing for exactly?"

"I don't think what I did bears repeating, but suffice to say that I am obviously deeply repentant of my transgression against you, Watson. It will never happen again. I promise you."

"What won't happen again?"

"Me betraying your trust?" he offered up with a tinge of uncertainty.

"And how exactly did you do that?"

"In an unguarded moment of misdirected concern?" Sherlock suggested hopefully.

"Over?"

Sherlock gave a grunt of annoyance at her relentless persistence to pin him down. "Over the thing I did which I'm hugely contrite about now."

"You mean the thing you don't what it is?" she threw back at him.

"Alright, yes," he snapped right back. "That thing."

"Insulting, pointless apology _not_ accepted!"

"I knew Gregson was an idiot," muttered Sherlock under his breath. The bigger person indeed. What a useless piece of advice. Now Joan sounded madder than ever. "This is ridiculous, Watson! I demand you tell me the nature of this umbrage you are currently taking with me."

"It's not my job to tell you how to be a human being!"

Sherlock flapped his arms around, even though she couldn't see it on the other side of the door. "Of course it is! One could argue that is your primary directive in regards to me."

"I've got a directive for you, Sherlock Holmes – drop dead!"

"All I need is a hint. Something to get the grey cells lubricated and ready to fire."

"Who are you, Hercule Poirot all of a sudden?"

Sherlock blanched. "Ugh, story book detectives – is there anything more ham-fisted and unoriginal?" He searched around in his memory for what he could possibly have done to have gotten her this mad at him. "Is it about always having to make the coffee?" No response. "Is it the toilet seat issue? I told you I'd replace it when I don't need it for my experiments." More stony silence. "The broken window? The setting your bed alight? That conversation with your mother?" Sherlock stepped back quickly as Joan abruptly opened the door.

"What conversation with my mother?" she demanded to know.

"Uh… nothing, that never happened," he said hastily.

"What did you do?" asked Joan fiercely.

"Nothing," he spluttered, "it was a perfectly amicable conversation." Sherlock hesitated. "Also, in an unrelated note, you're expected home for Thanksgiving… you're in charge of the pies. I'm not sure if that is only the sweet ones, or if the edict references the savory aspect of the pie spectrum as well. You may need to seek clarification on that point."

Joan glowered up at him, before slamming the door in his face again.

"It was a mutual invitation," he informed her. "I'm expected as well." Sherlock tilted his head. "Although I'm not certain if I should be bearing pastries as well. That too was left unclear."

"You don't seem to know anything these days, do you?" Joan noted sarcastically.

"I know it is ridiculous to be conducting this conversation through three inches of wood," said Sherlock hotly. "Open the door so we can have a proper conversation."

"You just want to be able to see my face while you make wild stabs in the dark, to work out if you're getting warm."

"And what would be so unforgivable about that?"

"You should just know!"

"Well, clearly I don't!" Sherlock's brow furrowed. "The tennis ball thing?"

"No."

"The bottle water incident?"

"No."

"The shower snafu?"

"Sherlock," said Joan in agitation.

He wasn't giving up in his pursuit to work out his latest transgression, the one which had broken Joan's patience with him. It had to be something. "Bees… bicycles… bells… bicycle bells… butter… buttered bread…"

"Stop yelling out nouns which begin with the letter B," she hissed.

"What are your feelings on the letter C?" he offered up quickly. "Clyde… carpet… cowbells…"

"You're making this so much worse," ground out Joan.

"How can it be worse? You won't even be in the same room with me."

"That's for your own safety," she bit out. "You should be grateful."

"Watson—"

"Go away, Sherlock, I don't want to talk to you right now. I'm too mad and trying to process."

"You know, they say a troubled shared is a troubled halved," he suggested. "If you just told me—"

"Back. Away. From. The. Door."

Sherlock's eyes widened at the amount of menace Joan had managed to get into those five words. "Very well. If you insist on being ridiculously overly dramatic about a matter which I'm sure is of little consequence, I'll leave you to your wallowing." He stomped on the ground loudly, and then with decreasing force, miming walking away. Sherlock stood there, still in front of Joan's door, hoping she'd venture out, now that he was 'gone'. He needed to be having this argument face to face. He struggled with social cues at the best of times. A face to face confrontation was his only hope. Unfortunately, as the minutes ticked by, Joan didn't emerge. Sherlock made a face. Looked like he was on his own with this one. He sat down on the floor, back against Joan's door and applied all of his not inconsiderable brain power towards working out just what it was they were arguing about…

 **A/N** **: So, next chapter, we find out about Sherlock's transgression. Anyone got any guesses as to what it might be? Here's a hint, the next chapter contains the words 'quivering anal sphincters'. There you go, can't give a much bigger hint then that, now can I?**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N** **: Phew, sorry this next chapter took so long, guys. I honestly thought I'd be posting it the next day but the muse (and real life) had other ideas. My bad. Thank you for all of your lovely reviews too, they're very much appreciated. I'm happy to know this is kind of in the ballpark as I've only watched a couple of episodes of the show. I really must stop doing that when it comes to writing fanfiction. It's becoming a bad habit.**

 **Anyways, I've ended up needing to do another chapter to finish this story off, so there will be one more chapter after this. Hope you have fun with this, I did.**

 **Toodles. :D**

 **CHAPTER TWO**

Sherlock had reached a perfect state of Zen. He had no sensation of time or anything other than then the calming rhythm of his next breath. Propped up against Joan's door, he'd allowed his mind to reach an equilibrium whereby his thoughts could flow freely. Sherlock was no longer on the same plane of existence that the rest of humanity resided in. He was a leaf on the wind. It was a flawless moment of transcendence. Suddenly all of that exploded as the door behind him opened, and the ultra-relaxed Sherlock was unable to stop himself from falling heavily back onto the hard wooden floors. His head made a sickening thud noise as it collided with the wood, and he was left lying there, cross-legged, eyes still closed as he heard Joan give a gasp of surprise above him. "Ow," he said flatly, not bothering to open his eyes.

"Sherlock! What are you doing?" asked Joan in agitation. "How long have you been sitting there?"

"What time is it now?"

"Two o'clock in the morning."

"When did you retire to your room?"

Joan sighed heavily. "You've been sleeping at my door this whole time?"

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked up at Joan as she stood over him, dressed in her pajamas. "Not sleeping, no. I've been thinking."

"Right," said Joan in resignation. "Come up with anything interesting?"

"Yes, I have as a matter of fact." Sherlock propped himself up on his elbows. "But before we discuss that, just a quick question. Am I bleeding profusely from that head wound I just sustained?"

Joan's gaze flicked to the back of his head. "You're fine," she said dismissively.

Sherlock grimaced and tentatively rubbed the back of his head where he could already feel a lump forming. "You sure you don't want to spend more than one eighth of a second coming to that conclusion, Watson? You didn't even touch me."

"Trust me, Sherlock, the way I'm feeling about you right now, you don't want me to touch you," said Joan tersely. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need a glass of water."

Sherlock grabbed her ankle as she went to step over him.

"Sherlock, let go of my foot."

He didn't comply. "As I said, I wasn't sleeping, I was thinking."

Joan frowned down at him as she balanced awkwardly on one leg. "And?"

"And I've reviewed all of our interactions, all of my actions in the last seventy-two hours. I wanted to cast a suitably wide enough net over our the time frame of your displeasure with me so as not to miss anything." He looked up at her very seriously. "And I have come to a conclusion."

"Which would be?"

"I've done nothing wrong."

Joan made a loud noise of annoyance. "You are unbelievable," she snapped. "You can't think of one thing you might have done to overstep the boundaries between us?"

"I can think of dozens, but as they are all on a similar par with one another, and you only seem to be taking exception to one, that pretty much rules them all out by default." Sherlock's hand tightened on her ankle. "If you wish for there to be some kind of resolution between us, Watson, you are just going to have to tell me what I've done."

"Let go of my foot," she ground out.

"Not until you tell me how it is that I've wronged you so badly."

Still perched on one leg, Joan glared down at him. "Two days ago, you were at the day unit of St. Mary's Medical Clinic."

"Yes."

"Talking to Doctor Simons." Joan managed to make that sound like a sin against nature. Her cheeks were flushed and eyes sparking with genuine anger and something else he couldn't quite work out. Joan yanked her foot out of the hold he had on it.

Sherlock blinked, still no closer to an understanding of the issue. "Yes. His associate, Doctor Gail Warner, wasn't on shift, which was who I really came to see, but Doctor Simons was able to provide me with the information about Tea Letterman's procedure she'd had performed there last Fall."

Joan's eyes went wide. "Wh-what?"

"Tea Letterman, the issue with the missing jewelry, and how I'd said all along it was an inside job, and the link between her and the man who killed her father was a man she met whilst having a procedure performed at the clinic." Sherlock paused. "It was only two days ago, Watson. Do I really need to go into the minutia of the case we were working on together?"

"I-I-ah… I didn't realize it was that clinic she'd had her procedure performed at," she said unevenly, looking a little thrown. "Doctor Warner is new. I didn't know she was working out of that clinic."

"Well, she was and is."

"Oh." Joan didn't say anything for a long moment, expression pensive. "Okay then, I'm sorry. Never mind."

Sherlock's eyes went wide as she went to step over him. He grabbed at her leg again to stall her. However, shock at her sudden turnaround had him putting a little more force behind the action then he intended. Joan fell forward, tripping over his legs and falling to the ground.

Joan gave a little squeak as she kept on sliding forwards, heading towards the stairs and then tumbling down them. She ended up halfway down the stairs before managing to grab at the railing to stop herself.

"Watson!" exclaimed Sherlock, rooted to the spot in horror at the thought he might have just broken her neck.

Joan scrambled to her feet in a rare moment of inelegance. She stood in the middle of the staircase, looking a little fluster. "Sorry."

"You're apologizing to me for throwing you down the stairs?" asked a completely bemused Sherlock. Joan had been the angriest over she'd ever been with him all day, for reasons he was still completely unaware of, and yet, when he'd actually done something to her, albeit accidently, she was apologizing to him.

"It was an accident," said Joan hastily. "We all make mistakes." With that she turned around and headed back down the stairs.

Sherlock was left sitting there, stunned for a few seconds, but then he was jumping up and racing down the stairs so he could get to the kitchen as Joan poured herself a drink of water. "Wait a minute," he said in disbelief. "Was I right? Were you in the wrong with our fight?"

"It was a misunderstanding," said Joan dismissively. "Never mind." She took a sip of her water and then wandered over to table, to look at the files Gregson had left there. "What's this? Do we have a new case?"

"Oh no," said Sherlock determinedly, "you do not get to change the subject, Watson. I demand an explanation of your erratic behavior immediately."

"I don't demand explanations of your erratic behaviors," she pointed out calmly.

"Yes, you do, all the time," said Sherlock hotly.

"And you only answer me about fifty percent of the time, and of those answers, only about three percent make any sense."

Sherlock pointed a finger at her. "But you do admit to me answering questions about my behaviors," he said triumphantly. "So, I am owed a similar courtesy for your recent treatment of me."

"You just pushed me down a flight of stairs," shot back Joan. "I think we can call it even, don't you?"

Sherlock frowned. "That was an accident."

"And my annoyance with you was from a misunderstanding. So, let's leave it at accidents and misunderstandings, hmm?" She went back to sipping her water and avoiding looking at him as she leafed through the case notes on the table. "So, is this a new case?"

Sherlock stepped closer and impatiently slammed the folder she was flipping through closed. "We're not talking about the case now. We're talking why you saw fit to ostracize me from your good graces for the last twenty-four hours, and then recant said displeasure, without a word of explanation."

"I explained, it was a misunderstanding."

Sherlock stared at her intently. "You're not going to tell me, are you?"

"It's not important, Sherlock, and it's two in the morning. I'd like to get some sleep." Joan moved past him, heading back towards the stairs.

He was immediately hot on her heels. "If you won't tell me, I'll simply deduce it for myself."

"Mm, okay," said Joan, still walking and sounding very disinterested.

Sherlock's mind was racing. "You were upset with me speaking with Doctor Simons. You have shown yourself in the past to be unhappy with me interacting with your romantic partners." He grinned, pleased with himself as the issue came into sharp relief for him. "You were angry with me because you saw myself and the good doctor conversing and assumed I was interfering in your love life. Which, really, is a totally unreasonable and unfounded assumption to make, Watson."

Joan turned around and looked up at him, unimpressed at that assertion. "The stockbroker."

"Oh, what, him?" Sherlock waved a dismissive hand at her. "That was days ago, are we still counting him?"

Joan shook her head at him, and then turned back around.

"No, wait, the man was sporting a wedding ring. You'd never involve yourself with a married man, so that can't be it." Sherlock reevaluated all that he knew. "You two are of a similar age. Did you attend medical school together?"

Joan was walking up the stairs now. "Goodnight, Sherlock."

"He's an oncology specialist who has been at that practice for a good while, as the lettering on his door was more aged then that of Doctor Warner's—" Sherlock stopped abruptly. "He's an oncology specialist," he repeated slowly.

Joan hadn't stopped in her ascent of the stairs, but Sherlock noticed a slight falter in her step as she went when he'd mentioned the word oncology again. Dread settled in his stomach like a lump of concrete, and then he was following Joan up the stairs and into her room. "Watson," worry making his tone sterner then he'd intended.

Joan stopped in front of her bed. Her head dropped briefly, and then she was setting down her glass of water and slowly turning around to face him. "Yes," she said in resignation.

"Yes?" repeated Sherlock tightly. He didn't want to hear this confirmation of what they both knew he was thinking.

"Last week I found a lump in my breast," said Joan calmly. "I booked in with Richard to have it checked out, and after the core biopsy was inconclusive, I've opted for a lumpectomy to remove it. When I saw you and Richard talking, I thought you'd somehow found out about it and were giving him the third degree instead of coming and talking to me about it. I was still… processing what was happening, and I wasn't ready to talk about it, and when I thought you were just jumping into the middle of all that, I just kind of—"

"Took leave of your senses?" suggested Sherlock unevenly. He didn't want to admit that it stung him to hear Joan hadn't wanted to involve him in such a potentially crucial moment of her life. She was intrinsically bound to all of his these days.

"I was scared," said Joan quietly. "And it was easier to be mad at you then examine that too closely and deal with it. I was wrong, and I'm sorry. Can we just leave it at that, please?"

Her apology did little to assuage the churning of his stomach and the blood was roaring in his ears. Sherlock didn't want this to be happening. "You have a lump in your breast?" He needed confirmation, clinging to some ridiculous hope that he'd misheard her.

Joan gave a short inclination of her head. "I didn't want to tell you until I knew what I was dealing with."

Sherlock knew she'd been protecting him, worried about news of any potential ill-health on her behalf might do to him. It was the go to instinct around a recovering addict, not being the thing which might push them to use again. "You should have told me," he said tightly.

Joan held his gaze steadily. "You've always led me to believe you have absolutely no interest in my breasts."

"Well, I didn't," said Sherlock sharply, "but now that they're trying to kill you, my interest in them is decidedly piqued."

"My breasts aren't trying to kill me." She pressed her lips together. "Probably."

Sherlock caught her moment of hesitation. "Can you give me a probability for that probably?"

"A significant amount of breast lumps are benign."

"A fact which the initial biopsy couldn't confirm."

Joan moved her shoulders a little. "It can be difficult sometimes, with biopsies. Given my family history, Richard and I decided we didn't want to take any chances. I'm also having some axillary lymph nodes removed for pathology, along with the lump."

"Family history?"

"My mother's sister died of breast cancer," said Joan quietly. "It was discovered too late and when it was, it had already metastasized into her bones and liver." Her lips tightened. "It was a brutal way to die, just devastated the whole family. I don't think my mother ever really got over it."

Sherlock could see the worry on Joan's face, and wished he was more gifted in knowing the right thing to say to impart comfort. The fact that she'd been keeping this information from him meant she had genuine concerns about what the pathology was going to reveal, and that was hard to know. Joan was scared, and Sherlock had few resources in his arsenal to know how to deal with that. In a moment of panic, he went against his instincts. Sherlock leant forward and drew her into an awkward hug, keeping his body stiffly away from hers and patting her back.

"What are you doing?" asked Joan, her voice muffled in his shoulder.

"I'm comforting you," said Sherlock, still patting her back awkwardly.

"Your comforting me is making me uncomfortable."

"Oh," said Sherlock, and immediately stepped back, hands dropping by his side. "To be honest, I didn't have high hopes going into that hug. I've never seen the value of touching another human being unless you're relieving basic bodily urges with sex, or trying to stop someone from killing you."

"Those are two pretty vast extremes there," said Joan in exasperation. "You should really look on building up some middle ground."

"I don't function well in the middle ground." Sherlock lifted one shoulder. "The middle ground always smells like feet to me."

Joan opened her mouth and closed it again. "Okay," she said slowly and then half-smiled. "I appreciate the sentiment even if your execution needs a little work."

"Which one is it?" asked Sherlock abruptly, looking between her breasts. "Which one has the lump?" It was his nature to know the details of any given situation, so he could pick through all the information, form it into something he could make sense of.

Joan wrinkled her nose. "Is that important?" She shrugged. "The left one."

"Of course it is," said Sherlock dourly. "The Latin word for left is sinistra, which became our word sinister over time. The left has long been associated with evil."

"I don't have an evil boob, Sherlock," said Joan in exasperation. "Besides, you're left handed. That doesn't make you automatically evil."

"Whilst I don't think I'm the poster child for the milk of human kindness, I do agree, it's not an exact science." He searched her face. "Are you alright?" he asked quietly.

"Yes." Joan looked away briefly. "When I first found the lump, it was confronting, of course, took me back to what it was like watching my Aunty Joan suffer—"

"You're her namesake?"

Joan gave a sad little smile. "Yes."

The desire to make this better for her was once again rising in Sherlock. His hands opened and closed in a futile attempt to be useful in some way.

"But the whole point of screening systems is that you can act on things early, which is what I've done." Joan wrinkled her nose. "Although, I'm going to have to rebook my appointment at the clinic."

"You cancelled your appointment?" asked Sherlock in horror.

"I was mad at you," said Joan, looking slightly sheepish now. "I thought you were getting involved in an aspect of my personal life I wasn't ready for you to be involved in yet."

Sherlock's eyes went wide. "So, the logical next was to put your own health at risk by childishly denying yourself speedy treatment to punish me for an imagined crime?" He waved a hand around. "Watson, that is both insanity and idiocy personified." This piece of information more than anything frightened him. Joan was always the calm, practical one, who didn't let emotions cloud her better judgements. The fact that her reflexive anger had been such at his imagined transgression just told Sherlock how afraid she must really be.

"I was mad at you," she said defensively. "I overreacted. I'm allowed the occasional piece of irrational behavior."

"No," said Sherlock sharply, still reeling from the fact his sensible Watson would be so self-destructive, "you're not, seeing as I'm clearly the one who has cornered the market on such a thing in our association. You are the steady hand on the keel of this relationship, Watson. Nobody wants a former heroin addict who can't make meaningful human connections in charge of anything."

"So, no pressure then," said Joan wryly.

Sherlock inclined his head, silently acknowledging her point. He knew it was unfair of him to put that kind of expectation on her when she was already struggling. "That being truth being said, I will free up my schedule to accompany you once you have made a new appointment."

Joan didn't look entirely thrilled at the offer. "First of all, your current schedule involves trying to invent a new version of chess which involves the use of knives, and painting Clyde's toenails for reasons I'm too scared to think about."

"He likes the color red," said Sherlock off-handedly. "It makes him happy."

Joan gave him a bewildered look. "How can you tell if a turtle is happy?"

"The anal sphincters spasmodically quiver when—"

"Nope," said Joan without hesitation. "You're never going to finish that sentence in my presence."

"I'm only answering a question you asked," pointed out Sherlock, a little miffed. "And as you so rightly deduced, Gregson has just gifted us with another case, so I do indeed have something to put aside to accompany you. Which I will do, happily. I will be by your side, Watson, offering moral support."

"That should scare me more than it does, but I'm still reeling from quivering turtle anal sphincters." Joan looked up at him. "You hate hospitals."

"I make a great deal of concessions for you, Watson, not the least of which is wearing pants on a regular basis. I can make one more."

"You didn't used to wear pants on a regular basis?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I think better with a cool breeze wafting through my genitals."

"More information I could happily have lived my entire life without knowing."

"I sensed my nudity would be something you'd be unhappy about, so I adjusted my routine, for you. I can put aside my distaste of hospitals, again, for you." Sherlock suddenly felt proud of himself for his selflessness. "Thus proving pretty conclusively that I'm the bigger person in this relationship."

The look Joan gave him was decidedly unimpressed if somewhat indulgent. "The bigger person wouldn't have felt the need to point out they were the bigger person, and by doing so, you've pretty much conclusively confirmed that you're in fact, the smaller person in this relationship."

Sherlock gave a little grimace, conceding she was alright. "Most likely. However, I would like to point out that I'm the tallest person in our relationship."

"Not the same thing."

"But it's in the same ballpark."

"It absolutely isn't."

Sherlock screwed up his face. "Your worry over this impending medical intervention is making you unusually belligerent. A fact I will graciously overlook, another example of my ever evolving ability to relate to the human condition."

"Stop applying a narrative to your actions to make yourself look better." Her look was pointed. "You're not exactly Mother Theresa yet."

"And nor would that be something I'd ever aspire to," he countered. "Not least of which because the woman is dead."

Joan screwed up her face. "Sherlock," she complained.

"Oh, right, we shouldn't talk about death," he said hurriedly. "Given your current condition."

"I don't have a current condition," said Joan sharply. "Other than vaguely annoyed." She wrinkled her nose. "And cold feet."

"You should get into bed," said Sherlock quickly. "Get warmed up."

Joan gave a little smile. "Why didn't I think of that?"

"Sometimes I can offer practicalities in our relationship."

Joan's smile widened.

"I did say sometimes," said Sherlock stiffly.

Joan took a step towards him, and Sherlock took a step back, thinking she was making her way to her bed.

"Stand still," she instructed him.

"What are you doing?" asked Sherlock anxiously as Joan took another step towards him.

Joan went up on her tip toes and wrapped her arms around his neck, drawing him into a hug. "This."

"Oh, right," said Sherlock as he awkwardly stood there, letting her hug him. "Didn't we learn our lesson with the last attempt?"

"Call me an optimist," murmured Joan, not loosening her hold on him.

Sherlock put a tentative hand to her back, patting it. The seconds ticked away, Joan pressing her body against his stiffly held one.

"Just how long exactly are these things meant to last?"

"Until you do it right," said Joan, maintaining the hug.

Sherlock made a pained expression. "I think you're setting unrealistic goals for our relationship again."

"Just shut up and hug me."

This prolonged human contact was making Sherlock start to sweat. He wasn't sure what to do. "There, there," he croaked in time to his back patting, "there, there."

"A hug doesn't need audio aids," she murmured against his shoulder.

Sherlock scowled fiercely above her head. "Oh well, this is just impossible then."

"Stop overthinking it and just hug me," said Joan quietly. "The world isn't going to explode because you let someone into your personal space for two minutes."

"Possibly, but why take the risk?" he argued.

"Because for once, this isn't about you, it's about me."

"And you find our rubbing our bodies against one another to be in some way beneficial?"

"If you stop narrating it I might."

Sherlock knew he was being churlish and vaguely babbling, but the truth was he was finding this hug very difficult. He didn't endorse the hugging of people, because as a rule people either bored or annoyed him. A lot of the times it was both. There was no desire on Sherlock's behalf to put himself in close proximity with such things. Joan, however, was different. She wasn't boring, and even though she vexed him no end sometimes, there was a security to the ire which would sometimes crop up between them. Sherlock felt safe to be himself around Joan, and she wouldn't walk away. Even when she'd been so mad with him just now, she still hadn't left. The last time they'd parted ways he knew it had been him overreacting to her changing their living arrangements with Joan moving out of the brownstone. It had rocked him to realize how much her everyday presence had come to mean to him. It wasn't enough that he'd still see her every day. Sherlock needed to know that he was her home, that no matter what, she'd always return to him at the end of the day. Her moving out stole that security from him, and he'd been angry. Moving back to London had been a way to punish them both – Joan for having the audacity to make him feel that way, and for himself, because he wasn't able to control those feelings when it came to her. Sherlock didn't care about her having boyfriends, they were usually inconsequential to what the two of them shared, with a few notable exceptions. What mattered was that they ultimately belonged to one another in a way that defied conventional explanations, and that it was necessary for them to always find a way back to one another, no matter how long it took.

But holding Joan in his arms right now, Sherlock was being forced to consider the frailty of the woman he was holding, and that one day he might truly lose her. And being in such close proximity to the one person in his world that he'd let truly in, only served to remind him she might be taken from him, and there was nothing he could do about it. It was agony, but Joan seemed to need the physical comfort, and he couldn't deny her that. The fear of losing her was gripping him more tightly every second they remained in their embrace, ensuring that it wasn't becoming less awkward. To be reminded so viscerally of all he could lose when it came to her… Sherlock had little skills in the way to deal with such a thing.

"Breathe, Sherlock," she advised him huskily, ironically offering him comfort. "Just breathe."

Sherlock was glad Joan wasn't able to see the flash of pain which passed over his face. "I'm trying," he mumbled, but the sudden uncertainty of their future together was making that an almost impossible request. Something constricted painfully in Sherlock's chest, as he thought about what tomorrow might hold for them both.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N** **: Hey all, back again. I was hoping this would be my last chapter, but no, couldn't quite manage to wrap it up. THIS is why I can't write one shots. It's a real problem. Now, I've written a few things in this chapter and what will (hopefully) be the last chapter which I'm not sure if it goes against any canon, because, like I've said, only watched three episodes and I only know about Sherlock's bees because of YT fan vids. So, yeah, apologies ahead of time if I get things wrong like Joan being able to speak Chinese… don't know if she can in the show, but the Joan in this story can.**

 **Okay, enough prefacing from me. Thank you to everyone who's taken the time to read, review, fave and follow. I appreciate it very much. :D**

 **Hope you enjoy…**

 **CHAPTER THREE**

Gregson paused as he came to the top of the stairs which led to the roof of Sherlock's brownstone. He looked around and spied the younger man hunched over on a deck chair, staring at his bee hives. Gregson wrinkled his nose, not really that keen to get close to all those bees, but he didn't have much alternative. He walked up behind Sherlock, already knowing the other man knew he was there. "Hey."

"Captain," responded Sherlock, not bothering to turn around to look at him, still staring at his bees.

"You know, you shouldn't leave your front door unlocked like that. It's not safe."

"Duly noted," said Sherlock with a decided lack of interest.

Gregson came to stand beside him, while still managing to keep as much distance as possible from the noisy bees. "You're not answering your phone."

"Mm."

Whilst he was more use to Sherlock's incessant talking, Gregson wasn't to be put off. "Thought you might like to know that you were right about the accountant. We just tossed his place and found a utility account for a house he had under his grandfather's name on the West Side."

"Mmhm."

"We found the collection of teeth he had stashed there. Trophies, like you said there'd be. I don't know how the hell you turned an embezzlement case into a serial killer one, but you helped us solve a whole lot of crimes with this last case."

Sherlock showed no reaction to the information, unblinking gaze on the bees flitting around their hives.

"You should be proud of the work you did on this one."

"Mmhm."

Gregson looked him over. "Also, from now on I want you to call me Carlotta, seeing as I've decided to throw in this law enforcement business and join an all-girls dance chorus."

"Mmhm."

Gregson sighed heavily at the lack for response, knowing something was wrong. "Where's Joan?"

"Out."

"On another walk? Like from the other day?"

"No, she had an appointment. One she didn't require my presence for… apparently."

Gregson's eyes narrowed as he regarded Sherlock. At the best of time the guy was a tough nut to crack when it came to what he was thinking. That was where Joan generally came in, interpreting the Sherlock-speak for the rest of them. Only she wasn't here and Gregson's instincts told him that was what had Sherlock in such a funk. He tried a sideways approach to working out what the problem was. Gregson followed Sherlock's unblinking gaze to the hive. "So… ah… how are your bees today?"

"I found the Queen dead this morning," said Sherlock emotionlessly.

"Oh." Gregson searched around for something to say. "Ah… how did she die?"

This finally earned him a look from Sherlock. "We're still waiting on the autopsy results to come back," he deadpanned.

Gregson inclined his head, acknowledging the sarcasm. "I just meant is there something wrong with your hive? Do all the other bees freak out when their Queen dies?"

Sherlock went back to surveying his hive. "No, they stay calm and just continue on with life."

"Okay," said Gregson slowly. "That's a good thing, right?"

"Of course, there is no point to that life now that the Queen is gone. The long term viability of the hive is compromised."

Gregson frowned, feeling like they weren't talking about bees anymore. "So, what, your colony just dies out now?"

"Of course not. Nature would never endorse something so unstainable. Another Queen bee will simply be chosen, and life will continue on in the hive as normal." A darkness settled over Sherlock's face. "Because they're bees, and their tiny brains are happy to accept one Queen as interchangeable with another," he said, sounding almost accusatory. "If only humans were so amply gifted with such pragmatism."

Gregson studied Sherlock's profile closely. "You and Joan still fighting?"

"No."

"So, you worked out what you did wrong the other day?"

"My first instinct was correct," said Sherlock dully. "I did nothing wrong."

Gregson screwed up his face. "I find that hard to believe."

"It's the truth."

"Okay, then, why do you sound so unhappy about being right? You normally aren't subtle about proclaiming your infallibility to the world."

"It's possible to be right and still lose," he said morosely.

"Sherlock, tell me what's wrong? Is Joan alright? Where is she?"

"I'm not at liberty to disclose Watson's whereabouts because that is her personal business," said Sherlock tightly.

"But wherever she is, she didn't want you along for the ride?" pushed Gregson.

"It appears I'm more of a hindrance than a help in certain areas."

"That cannot be new information for you."

"It's not, but this is Watson, and I thought, given the circumstances, that my attempts at being a friend might be of some value to her, but it turns out that they are apparently too feeble to be of any real use to her." Sherlock trailed off, looking away, but not before Gregson saw the flash of pain cross over his face.

"And these circumstances, you're not going to tell me what they are?"

"No. If I can offer Watson nothing else, I can gift her with discretion."

Gregson didn't need his long years involved in solving puzzles to tell him that something was wrong with Joan. Whether it was physical, emotional, something about her family, it didn't matter, because Sherlock was obviously upset that she didn't want him around to help her. Frankly, it was a somewhat surprising development for Gregson. He'd always known that Joan was the exception to all the rules in Sherlock's odd life, but he hadn't seen it quite expressed like this before. The thought that Sherlock Holmes would actually be grieved at not being allowed to be a part of someone else's life, rather than leaping in the air with relief was a strange thing to behold.

"We hugged," blurted out Sherlock awkwardly, as though he was confessing to a stack of Playboys under his bed to his mother.

"Okay."

"It was a disaster."

Gregson pursed his lips, not sure how a hug could be a disaster, but confident that if such a thing was possible, Sherlock would be the one to make it happen.

"I'm not sure what was more traumatic for Watson that night, me tripping her down the stairs, or that hug."

"You pushed Joan down the stairs?" asked Gregson in vague horror. He shook his head. "I see why you get women to tie you up for sex. You're a menace up close and personal."

Sherlock glared up at him, clearly unamused. "I _tripped_ her," he repeated.

Gregson was uncertain how that made things better. "Ah… why?"

"It was unintentional, obviously," ground out Sherlock. "I grabbed her leg as she stepped over me on the way down the stairs."

"And it didn't occur to you that she'd need both of her legs to walk down the stairs? Aren't you meant to be a genius?"

"She wasn't meant to fall over," snapped Sherlock. "She was just meant to stop… but then she did fall over, and slid halfway down the stairs." He shook his head impatiently. "It was an accident."

"And she's alright?"

"Of course she's alright," said Sherlock tersely. "No matter what you might think of me, Captian, I'm not in the habit of tossing women down stairs, and then blithely continuing on with my day as thought nothing had happened, particularly if they were hurt."

Gregson held up a placating hand. "Okay, okay, just getting my facts straight here." He paused. "So, the hug… didn't work out too great, huh?"

"The first one was a train wreck—"

"More than one hug?" noted Gregson in surprise. "You two like living life on the edge."

"You're not helping," said Sherlock darkly.

"You're the one equating the comfort level of your hugs to being tossed down a flight of stairs."

Sherlock went rigid, but didn't argue with him.

"Okay," sighed Gregson, "I'm going to offer some unsolicited advice, and you can take it or you cannot take it, but I'm giving it."

Sherlock didn't say anything, which Gregson took as tacit approval to continue.

"Clearly something is going on in Joan's life that is upsetting her. Whatever it is, you want to offer her support, but feel poorly equipped to take the burden from her. How am I doing?"

Sherlock looked at him again. "Continue," he said warily.

"You're the solve-it guy, and your first instinct is to fix whatever this is for Joan, only you can't. So, now you're stumped."

Sherlock was watching him intently.

"I know that's how your brain works – seeing problems, finding the solutions, but sometimes life isn't about solutions, it's just about… you know… life."

"Yes, as wildly unhelpful as I suspected your insight would be," said Sherlock dourly.

"My point is that if you can't fix what the problems Joan is going through, you can just be there for her. Sometimes it's not about taking away a burden, it's just about sharing it."

"It may have escaped your notice, Captain," said Sherlock tightly, "but empathy and words of comfort are not my strongest suite."

"It hasn't escaped my notice, but like you just said, this is Joan we're talking about, and she's the exception in your life. You do have empathy for her, otherwise we wouldn't be sitting here, talking about this. As for your ability to be comforting… do your best, and Joan will recognize it for what it is." Gregson paused. "Just try not to be comforting on a flight of stairs. Gravity seems to be your enemy there."

"Watson made it quite clear she didn't require the assistance of Sherlock Holmes today," he said hoarsely.

"So, don't be Sherlock Holmes, be her friend."

Sherlock's expression clouded over. "What if that isn't enough?" he asked painfully. "It won't solve anything."

"Like I said, sometimes it's not about solving anything, sometimes it's just about knowing. Whatever Joan is going through at the moment, let her know she's got a friend to go through it with. Life isn't all questions and answers."

"Mine has been."

"Yeah, but when you let Joan into your life, it got bigger. That's just how it works. Things get complicated, but that doesn't have to be a bad thing. With complications comes layers and textures to a life which can be a lot more fulfilling then a one dimensional, black and white one."

Sherlock turned back in his seat and went back to staring at his bees.

Gregson watched him for a moment, uncertain if anything he'd said had made any kind of impact on the man, or if he'd just wasted his breath. It was next to impossible to tell. "So, anyways, just wanted to let you know about the case." When Sherlock didn't respond Gregson gave up, and turned, starting to walk away.

"Carlotta."

Gregson stopped when Sherlock spoke, and looked back over his shoulder.

"Thank you," said Sherlock simply, still not looking at him. "I appreciate your thoughts on this matter."

Gregson couldn't help the small smile that came to his lips. Well, what do you know, the guy could be vaguely human when he put his mind to it. "You're welcome." He continued to walk towards the door to the stairs.

"Although I'd rethink the dancing career," continued on Sherlock calmly from behind him. "I think we both know you don't have the legs for it."

Gregson shook his head as he reached the door, still smiling. Of course, there were some things about the guy which remained a constant.

 **#**

Joan sat in the padded leather chair, not even bothering with the stack of magazines resting on the coffee table in front of her next to the large vase of brightly colored flowers mirroring the tasteful impressionist art adorning the walls. The waiting room of the St Mary Day Unit was meant to make you feel like you were in someone's home, rather than awaiting a procedure in a medical care clinic. Only it wasn't true. The attempts to put you at ease only reminded Joan acutely of the fact that she wasn't in someone's home. All this feigned normalcy around her didn't change the fact her life was possibly about to be anything but. She moved a little in her seat, and tried to model at least a posture of ease, even if that was the last thing she felt. She'd been a doctor, she knew what was about to happen to her, but that knowledge brought no comfort. It wasn't the procedure itself that had her so tense, it was knowing what it could tell her about her future… or lack thereof.

It was an overly dramatic thought on her behalf and she chastised herself for going to the worst case scenario so quickly. But even as she did, it was impossible for her not to think about her Aunt Joan. She'd been only seventeen when her aunt had received the diagnosis. Joan remembered what it was like to see her mother crumble to the ground when her sister told her she was dying. She saw the fear in her uncle's face, in her cousins that they were going to lose the center of their family. Aunt Joan had only been thirty-eight when she'd died, and watching it happen had been a profound experience for Joan. Towards the end, her uncle couldn't cope with the palliative care, not with all that it entailed, and still looking after three young children, and her aunt had not wanted to die in a hospital. So, her mother, as the older sister had brought Aunt Joan into their home without hesitation. Her family would visit daily, but the day to day care of Aunt Joan fell to her mother. Joan had been there every day in those last two months. To see someone you love just waste away like that, to have them fight for every breath of air, to not have a single moment without pain – it had been incredibly difficult. Just as difficult was seeing the pain her slow death was causing those who loved her. Her mother had been amazing with her sister, but Joan had caught the moments her mother would let that brave face slip. She'd see her mother disappear into the kitchen pantry and just sob and sob. Then she'd emerge and continue on with all that needed to be done. It was a heavy burden her mother had endured, and even though Joan knew her mother would have wanted it no other way, it had left a mark on her mother's psyche she carried to this day. It was a horrifying thought to Joan that she might be the cause of such pain again for her mother.

And then there was Sherlock.

It wasn't conceited of her to acknowledge the fact that Sherlock relied on her. More than anything else as someone in this world who could understand him, or, at least always try. He'd rejected the world long ago, choosing decisively not to require its validation or understanding. He couldn't be bothered explaining himself to the world, but for some reason, she was the one he'd settled on that she was allowed to see past the masks he'd set in place to keep himself hidden from everyone else. Sherlock needed to be seen by her for who he really was. Joan wasn't even sure when that transition had happened, or if he was even really aware that it had happened, but she knew she know had a kind of power over Sherlock that he'd actively worked against giving anyone else in his life. Joan didn't take that lightly. She knew how vulnerable he was on so many levels. He had a self-destructive bent to his nature that was always looking for an excuse to be given free reign. Joan couldn't bear the thought that she might be that reason.

That was why she was sitting here alone, waiting for her procedure. Joan knew she couldn't manage her mother or Sherlock's fear and her own and keep her sanity. She hadn't intended on either one of them knowing about any of this until there was something to know, but then she'd shot herself in the foot with that intention when it came to Sherlock. When she'd seen him at the clinic, Joan had just automatically assumed he was on a fact finding mission about her. In her outrage she pretended it was because of him going behind her back, but the real truth was she wasn't ready to admit to anyone, let alone herself, how afraid she really was. But then, Sherlock finding out had happened anyway, and surprisingly, the world hadn't ended. She used to tell her clients that – imagine the worst thing happening, and then see a way through it. Often it's the fear of that worst case scenario, rather than the scenario itself, which paralyzes a person. Easy advice to give, harder advice to live out. Sherlock had surprised her with that attempt at a hug. It had been terrible, but it was an honest moment of reaching out to another person. Even though Joan tried not to be, she was more than a little pleased with the fact he'd done that with her. Sherlock was an extraordinary man, and you couldn't help but feel a little extraordinary yourself when his attention was on you. As a rule Joan didn't let herself look at things that way, knowing how important it was that they maintain a sense of self in what could be a very consuming relationship. But every now and then it was a secret indulgence that she found too hard to resist. Which is why she owed him this protection from having to go through this with her.

Joan already knew Sherlock was struggling. The last two days, since her early morning confession, Sherlock had been going to extreme lengths to carry on as though everything was completely normal, which of course had the effect of making everything anything but. It was like he'd been reading from a script with the title 'A Day In The Life of Holmes and Watson' and there was no adlibbing allowed. He'd been so dedicated in his attempts at extreme routine, Joan had begun to become worried that all this 'life as usual' business was going to be the end of him. She knew he'd meant it to be a reassuring gesture, but to watch Sherlock tie himself up in knots as he proclaimed normalcy was a little disconcerting. They both knew it wasn't helping, but for once, Joan didn't really know what would help, and Sherlock needed to feel useful, so she'd let him be. She'd done the right thing in not letting him come along today. Joan had seen the hurt look he'd quickly tried to hide as he mumbled something about attending to his bees anyways, but she knew it was for the best. Sherlock coming with her to this appointment would definitively confirm that nothing about their lives right now was routine, and neither one of them wanted that.

Joan caught a flash of movement out of the corner of her eye as someone walked into the clinic waiting room. Her eyes widened as she saw Sherlock standing there, quickly glancing around the room and seeing her. He walked directly up to her. They stared at each other for a long moment, and then without a word, Sherlock took a seat beside her. Joan waited for him to say something, but he didn't. Instead, Sherlock simply reached out and took her hand, threading his fingers through hers and holding onto her tightly. Joan looked down at their entwined hands, and felt a rush of emotions. She'd kept telling herself that she didn't want Sherlock there, being forced to manage his emotions as well as her own. But to her great surprise, all she'd felt when she'd seen Sherlock standing in front of her was a sense of overwhelming relief. The feel of him securely holding her hand released a tightness in her chest she hadn't even realized she'd been feeling. Some tension eased from her body at Sherlock's solid presence by her side. Joan could feel a gentle warmth coming off his body as he sat by her, and then there was that indefinable Sherlock smell that was uniquely his. It all mixed together to make her feel incredibly safe in that moment. Joan let her guard down even more, resting her head on his shoulder. He accepted the small act of intimacy without comment. They sat there, the two of them in a comfortable silence for a long moment, Sherlock not even complaining about the wait, which was a miracle in of itself.

"This is nice," Joan confessed quietly after more minutes had ticked by, her head still on his shoulder. "I thought I should do this alone, but now that you're here… I'm glad I'm not."

Sherlock shifted a little in his seat. "You know, Watson," he said, staring straight ahead, "if you'd think it would help, I would be perfectly agreeable to accompanying you into the actual procedure."

Joan didn't lift her head from her shoulder, but did look up at his face.

Sherlock hesitated. "Unless the thought of me seeing your breasts would make you uncomfortable, of course." Another pause. "But then, I could always offer to show you a part of my body not normally on display, if you think it'd help in equalizing any perceived shifts in the balance between us." Sherlock's brow wrinkled. "Although, in the service of full disclosure, I should point out that I am not coy about any of my body parts, so perhaps the exchange would not render the same outcome if the same amount of discomfort was not being felt by both parties."

Joan couldn't help but smile as she listened to his ramblings. "I've already seen you naked," she reminded him with affection. "That time I came home unexpectedly when you were… entertaining."

"Indeed," said Sherlock tightly, "and the time I was making homemade gunpowder and got the chemicals all over me, and I had to discard my clothing abruptly." He inclined his head. "And then there was that time I needed confirmation I hadn't had a tracking device planted under my skin. Your examination was very thorough."

"Because you made me," complained Joan without any real ire. "I had better things to do with my Saturday night."

"I had no one else I could trust," said Sherlock firmly. "No one else who wouldn't think me insane."

Joan felt Sherlock's hand tighten on hers as he said those words. She lifted her head from his shoulder to regard his stoic profile.

"So, I suppose my offer of seeing me naked is rather moot," he continued on a little hoarsely, still staring at a point on the wall in front of them. "Seeing as you have seen me naked on more than one occasion."

Joan knew they weren't talking about just physical nakedness any more. She could see how vulnerable Sherlock was feeling right then. Joan couldn't quite imagine the internal back and forth he must have had with himself about coming to be with her, but she knew it would have been long and detailed and considered possibilities she would have never have thought of. It meant a lot that he was here with her anyways. "And I haven't run away screaming yet," she reminded him huskily.

"You screamed with the homemade gunpowder episode," he reminded her unevenly.

"That's because you were on fire," she said in exasperation.

"Mm," he agreed casually, "baby powder is surprisingly flammable. It's a wonder they don't put that on the side of the bottle while promising mothers their spawn are going to have the softest bottoms in babydom. They may as well douse them in petrol."

"Yeah, it's probably something I'd open with too," said Joan wryly.

Suddenly Sherlock was looking at her with those piercing grey eyes of his, gaze locked with hers. Often when he talked, Sherlock wouldn't look at you, but at another point in the room, as he spoke in rapid, clipped tones trying to get all the thoughts in his brain out in a way that others could understand him. Sometimes Joan thought Sherlock saw talking as a bit of a chore, frustrated that those around him were too obtuse to work out what he saw as the obvious. The thing was, most things were only obvious to him and that amazingly configured brain of his. Joan often felt like Sherlock was an impatient parent out on a walk, waiting for the toddlers around him to catch up so they could get where they were going. There was usually the sensation of rushing to keep up with him and that brain of his which was devouring every element of information in the environment around him, and working on making sense of it. It was hard not to feel breathless in his company. But when he did choose to make eye contact, it caused another kind of breathlessness in her. When that grey gaze locked onto you, everything else just fell away, and the feeling that he was stripping the flesh from your bones with that grey gaze of his was very intense. Sherlock always saw everything, and to have him stop and actually look at you, Joan knew that there was very little he couldn't see when he put his mind to it.

When she'd first seen Sherlock's way of communicating, gaze darting around the room as he spoke to a person, or simply moving on and off them, she'd at first thought it was him creating a wall between himself and the other person. A wall he could hide behind and not let people in to see the real man. However, the longer she'd been with Sherlock, the more she'd began to doubt that theory. Nowadays, Joan suspected that even though some of Sherlock's lack of eye contact with people was due to dismissive disinterest, there was another part of it, reserved for those closer to him. He refrained from looking directly at people in any kind of sustained way not because he was necessarily afraid of what they'd see in him, but what they knew he was seeing in them. It was impossible to not come under the unflinching gaze of Sherlock Holmes, and not feel like the man was seeing past every pretense, every self-delusion to see you at your most basic and raw level. Most people find that kind of exposure to be unsettling and unwelcome. So, for those Sherlock cared about, he simply didn't… for their comfort, not his. It was a surprisingly empathetic realization on Joan's behalf when she'd worked out the two markedly different ways Sherlock had when it came to not looking at people he was interacting with.

"I rather suppose my point being, Watson," said Sherlock quietly, "flammable babies notwithstanding, is that I am happy to see you naked, as you have seen me be such on so many previous occasions." His intense gaze never left her slightly overwhelmed on. "I will not run from the room screaming, I promise you."

Joan felt an unexpected swell of emotion from his declaration. This was a huge thing on Sherlock's behalf. He was telling her that the man who normally avoided all human entanglements on pain of death, the man who never wanted anyone to rely on him, was telling her she could rely on him now. It was a definite shift in the balance between them to a more equal footing. Sherlock, in a roundabout way, was giving her permission not to be the strong one, that he could step into the breach and be there for her the way she'd been there for him on so many occasions. It was as though their relationship had come an emotional full circle. They'd met with her offering him support as a sobriety companion, and now, Sherlock was returning the gesture, and Joan was under no illusions as to how significant of an offer that was on his behalf.

"Ms. Watson?"

They both looked up to see a young woman dressed in pink scrubs smiling down at them.

"Yes," said Joan quickly.

"We're ready for you to come through now." The nurse looked at Sherlock. "Will your husband be with you for your procedure?"

"I'm not her husband," said Sherlock seriously.

"I'm sorry, your partner then."

Sherlock inclined his head at this descriptor. "In the most significant way I'm capable of, certainly, yes."

The nurse opened her mouth and then closed it again, sending Joan a quizzical look. "So… where did we land on that accompanying you question again?"

Joan was aware of Sherlock regarding her intently out of the corner of her eye. "He's coming with me," she said calmly. Joan turned to look at Sherlock, seeing the pleased expression on his face, knowing she was allowing them to change the dynamic of their relationship irrevocably. "For better or for worse," she added a little wryly. They were in this together and it was surprising to her how little that scared her.

"Okay, that's fine. If you could just follow me, please?" The nurse turned around and headed off down a corridor.

Joan and Sherlock stood up and followed her.

"You know, my offer still stands about me exposing myself to you, Watson," said Sherlock as they walked along. "In regards to maintaining the equilibrium of our relationship."

That earned them a curious over the shoulder look from the nurse in front of them.

"Keep it in your pants, Sherlock," said Joan, trying not to smile at his version of being comforting. "Let me get through one traumatic experience before having to deal with another."

"As you wish," said Sherlock, clearly taking no offense. "As long as you know the offer still stands."

"I do know, and I appreciate the sentiment behind the weirdness," she said indulgently.

"As only you could," agreed Sherlock as they walked into the procedure room.

The nurse smiled encouragingly at Joan as she handed her a pink gown. "Are you ready for this?"

"Yes," said Joan calmly, knowing she needed to find out one way or the other what was going on with her body. She looked over at Sherlock who was sporting a strained expression now.

They both did.

 **A/N** **: Guess we'll find out in the next chapter what the final histology results are… hope you'll join me. :D**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N** **: So happy to be presenting you with the final chapter of this little ficlet, my ducklings. It's great to be able to put this one to bed. Thank you as always for all of your kind and generous reviews with this story. There is a level of appreciation for them that I don't think I'll ever be able to convey.**

 **So, without further ado… or adieu really, I'll let you crack on and read the last chapter.**

 **Hope you all enjoy… :D**

 **CHAPTER FOUR**

Joan walked down the stairs, blinking to clear her still sleepy eyes. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Sherlock already up and doing something over in the corner of the living room. "Morning," she mumbled sleepily.

"Good morning, Watson. How did you sleep?"

Joan continued her way into the kitchen. "Okay, but weird dreams." She yawned, flicking on the electric kettle. "I dreamt I was being chased by a giant Scottish pigeon." Joan gave a little grunt. "Vicodin and my subconscious don't mix, apparently."

"How did you know the pigeon was Scottish?" asked Sherlock curiously from behind her.

"He was wearing a kilt."

"Makes sense."

Joan wrinkled her nose. "It really doesn't." She hadn't wanted to take the pain relief, but the wound in her armpit was particularly bothering her last night, so she'd relented and taken the drugs Richard had prescribed for her. It had only been half a tablet, but it had been enough to get her to sleep… and dream of giant, kilt-wearing pigeons. As the kettle began to whistle, Joan called out to Sherlock over her shoulder. "Do you want tea as well?"

"Seeing as you're making it."

"I am," said Joan, reaching up for two cups without thinking about it. The wound under her arm gave her a sharp reminder that it was a difficult area for stitches to heal, and she gave a little gasp of pain, clutching at her armpit on instinct.

Suddenly Sherlock was directly behind her, reaching up over her head. "I've got it, Watson," he said in her ear.

Joan scowled at her own vagueness. She knew not to reach up with her post-surgery wounds, but she'd done it anyway. It had been two days since her procedure and the incision on her breast from the lumpectomy was healing well, but the area she'd had the lymph nodes removed from was being more belligerent.

"I'll make the tea," he offered, setting down the cups on the counter. "My tea making skills are more advanced than yours anyways. I am British, after all. I have a natural advantage."

Joan grabbed some paper toweling and dabbed at the sutures under her arm which were now oozing some blood as she wandered back into the living room. "You remember that I'm Chinese, right? My people have pretty much got a couple of thousand years jump on yours in the tea area."

"Yes, but we British perfected it."

Joan rolled her eyes. "Nǐ kěyǐ bù wánměi de wánměi," she murmured under her breath.

"What was that?" called out Sherlock from behind her.

"Nothing," she said more loudly.

"Funny, because I could have sworn you said something along the lines of you can't perfect perfection."

"You speak Chinese," said Joan in exasperation, as she finished tending to her wound and discarded the paper towel. "Of course you do."

"I could almost return the compliment, except for that appalling American accent you have over the top of it."

"I speak Chinese perfectly well," said Joan roundly, turning to face him. "I don't have an accent with it."

"You do," said Sherlock confidently, "but if it makes you happy to live with your delusions, we'll speak no further on the subject."

Joan resisted the urge to roll her eyes again. Sometimes it was just better to let these conversations go. She looked him over, seeing he was fully dressed. "Did you sleep last night? I heard you downstairs a few times. What were you doing?"

"This, that… the other," said Sherlock with a vague wave of his hand.

Joan came to a stop in the living room, noting the state of the far wall where there were large pieces of plastering removed all along its length. "What is going on here?"

"It's fine," said Sherlock dismissively. "I found a wire in the wall last night. I wanted to see where it went and what it was for."

Joan's gaze followed the line of destruction up the wall and into the ceiling. "And?"

"I haven't yet found a point of original for the wire, but I have confidently ruled out what it isn't – it's not part of the lighting, or the heating of the building. It also isn't associated with any form of electrics that I have so far isolated. I'm going to require more than just a hammer to continue my investigations. I'm planning on purchasing a chainsaw today. I will keep you informed of my progress."

Joan made a face as she turned around to look at him. "You're not buying a chainsaw, Sherlock."

"Why not? A chainsaw seems like an infinitely useful piece of equipment to have lying around the house," he protested.

"Here's a piece of advice for you, Sherlock. Anytime you're doing something and think a chainsaw would be helpful to you, then what you're doing is a bad idea."

"But—"

Joan shook her head at him. "No chainsaws in the house. I'm serious." She knew that Sherlock was only letting the wire in the wall bother him because he was desperate to keep busy as they waited on her test results. There was no new case to be worked on, and Sherlock had a lot of restless energy looking to be poured into something. Joan really didn't want that restless energy to involve a chainsaw. There could be no possible good which would come of that.

"It'll be a small one. You'll barely notice it."

"But it'll still be a chainsaw, right?"

"Well, yes."

"I'm going to notice a chainsaw being used in our living room, Sherlock," she said wryly. "You've trained me to be observant, remember?"

Sherlock grunted, looking put out. "Very well, I suppose I can resort to a handsaw. It's just going to take me a lot longer."

"Or, you could just leave our living room intact?" Joan suggested. "Just a thought."

"The living room is intact," he huffed. "Stop over-dramatizing the situation, Watson. I haven't even come close to the floorboards yet." Sherlock paused. "Although I suspect that is where my final destination ultimately lies."

"Stop turning our house into a demolition site," she said determinedly. "It's not safe."

"Of course it's safe," said Sherlock indignantly. "I work with great care and precision."

Just as he said those words, a huge chunk of plaster peeled off the wall and landed in the chair Joan usually sat on to take her tea in the morning. They both gave a little start of surprise at the loud noise, as a cloud of plaster dust engulfed them both. Joan looked back at Sherlock, raising a pointed eyebrow at him.

"Although perhaps avoiding the area surrounding my investigations would be prudent for the time being," he continued on smoothly.

Joan shook her head at him as Sherlock walked over to her with two cups of tea in his hands. He went to hand them to her just as her phone rang. They both tensed, knowing it could be the call they'd been waiting on with unspoken anxiousness. Joan reached for her phone, lips tightening as she recognized the number. She answered the call. "Hi Richard, how are you?" Joan saw Sherlock's knuckled whiten as he gripped the tea mugs more tightly, and then he was turning around and walking back into the kitchen with the hot drinks. Joan took a deep breath, knowing this was the moment of truth.

"Hi Joan, sorry to ring so early, but I figured you'd be wanting your pathology results as soon as possible."

"It's not too early, and yes, I'd be lying if I said my test results haven't been on my mind," said Joan, proud of how calm she sounded.

"I won't keep you in suspense any longer," said Richard.

Joan's gaze locked with Sherlock as he walked back from the kitchen, now empty handed as he came to stand in front of her, his expression full of strained seriousness.

"That'd be great," said Joan, still holding Sherlock's gaze.

"The breast mass was benign," continued on Richard. "Although quite unusual. The pathology came back as PASH – Pseudo-Angiomatous Stromal Hyperplasia. The excision was complete and your lymph nodes were all clear, obviously."

Joan couldn't speak, the blood was pounding in her ears and she could feel herself beginning to shake.

"Joan?" said Richard, sounding vaguely concerned. "Hello? Are you there?"

"Yes," she managed to croak out through numb lips, "I'm here."

"It's good news," reiterated Richard. "Congratulations."

"Yes," Joan rasped, violent emotions churning inside of her, catching her off-guard.

"I'll see you in a couple of days, when you come by for me to take out the sutures. Maybe we can finally make a date for you to come over for dinner. I know Patty and the kids would love to see you."

"Yes," said Joan, finding communication beyond that word a little too much to handle right then, but she tried. "Thank you for letting me know, Richard," she said unevenly. "I really appreciate it."

"You're welcome, Joan. See you soon."

Richard hung up and Joan was left there, rooted to the spot. Suddenly a sob bubbled up inside of her, and she clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle the unexpected reaction.

Sherlock's eyes went wide as he stared at her in horror, his hands clenching and unclenching almost violently.

Joan knew he must be thinking the worst, given her reaction, and she opened her mouth to try and tell him that it was all okay, but that just allowed another sob to escape her lips. She really hadn't been expecting to react like this. It was though her emotions had taken over her entire body, and all the fear and anxiety she'd been determinedly suppressing over the last week were bursting out all at once, expressing themselves in surprising tears which were currently stinging her eyes.

Sherlock swallowed hard. "Alright, there is no need to panic, Watson," he blurted out. "I've done extensive research on all the different types of malignant breast tumors, and their treatments. Now that we know what kind of cancer this is, we can begin the fight in earnest. This is only the beginning, and this is a fight that will not be lost—"

Sherlock was talking so fast, hands clenching and unclenching wildly, and Joan suspected this was a speech he'd been working on for a while now with the way he was delivering it with machine gun-like efficiency. She held up a shaking hand to his chest, trying to get him to stop, to explain even as her vocal chords remained choked up. Joan still had a hand over her mouth, not trusting herself to not begin crying in earnest, even as more unwelcome tears slid down her cheeks. She could feel Sherlock's heart pounding erratically against the palm of her hand, and felt horrible about doing this to him, even though it appeared she had no control over herself all of a sudden.

"Joan," said Sherlock in anguish, covering her hand with both of his. He shook his head at her, face lined in gathering horror at her obvious distress.

Joan dropped her hand away from her mouth and drew in a ragged breath, willing her body to cooperate. "I'm alright," she finally managed.

"You will be," ground out Sherlock, his tone so determined it was like he was daring any kind of disease to even attempt taking her from him.

Joan attempted another deep breath, and tried to bring herself back under some semblance of control. "No, I mean I'm really al-alright," she stammered. "The lump was benign."

Sherlock was searching her expression so intensely it was like he was trying to see into her soul. "Watson," he said hoarsely, "if you are trying to spare my feelings by telling me there is nothing to worry about, when there actually is, you need to know there is no way you'll be able to keep up such a pretense with me."

"It's not a pretense," said Joan shakily. "It's the truth. I'm clear. I'm fine." She saw his gaze move to her cheeks and Joan immediately moved to brush away the telltale tears. "I-I don't know why I'm crying," she said, embarrassed at her own reaction. "I suppose I was a lot more afraid of that phone call then I was letting myself deal with." Joan nodded encouragingly at him, regaining her own equilibrium now. "The test results were good, Sherlock. It was a benign tumor and it's gone now." A fresh surge of relief ran through Joan's body as she said the words aloud again. She smiled. "I'm going to be fine. I _am_ fine. Perfectly healthy."

Sherlock's expression was still wary, as he kept a tight grip on her hand.

Joan squared her shoulders, and met his worried gaze unflinchingly. "Sherlock," she said calmly. "It's the truth. I'm not lying to you." Another smile. "Life as normal from now on. I promise."

Sherlock was just still staring at her, saying nothing, and Joan felt like she was trying to coax an untrusting feral cat out of the shadows with her reassurances.

"I don't suppose I could have my hand back?" she teased him, attempting to return some normalcy to their interaction. "I may not be a surgeon anymore, but I still find it comes in handy from time to time." Joan wrinkled her nose. "No pun intended."

Sherlock immediately let go of her hand, and took a step back. "You're alright."

It was a statement, not a question but Joan answered anyway. "Yes." She watched the relief slowly spread across his face.

"You're not dying."

"No more than I was before," she confirmed.

"This is excellent news, Watson," said Sherlock, a little more loudly than before.

"Yes, I think so too," said Joan ruefully.

He tilted his head, that unblinking grey gaze of his still on her face. "If it isn't too much trouble though, the next time you receive good news, could you attempt not to burst into tears, please? It's somewhat misleading in informing my appropriate reactions."

Joan felt herself blush a little. "I'm sorry. I don't know where the crying came from. I really wasn't expecting to react like… that."

"No harm done," said Sherlock primly. He was holding his body very upright now. "But this good news calls for a celebration." His face split in an excited smile. "I have been reviewing old case files of the NYPD of late, and come across an anomaly on a closed case. I believe they have appropriated the crime to the entirely wrong man. I thought we could investigate and right a wrong."

"Yes," said Joan a little wryly, "I'm sure the Captain will be thrilled with us doing just that."

"Being able to accept correction is a necessary life skill."

Joan tilted her head and looked up at him. "And you know this because?"

"When I'm wrong, I'll accept correction, but as I've never been wrong, the issue hasn't arisen as of yet," said Sherlock blithely.

"Mmhm," said Joan indulgently.

"The case involves bodies being dissolved in acid," said Sherlock excitedly. "Are you intrigued, Watson?" He hesitated then. "Although, would acidified human slurry not be considered celebratory in nature? Should we go to lunch instead? Is that more the acceptable norm for such things?"

Only in Sherlock Holmes' mind would lunch and bodies dissolving in acid be considered on an equal footing. She loved that about him, just as much as it sometimes frustrated her.

Joan gave him a warm smile. "Tell me about the dissolving bodies," she said indulgently.

Sherlock grinned, clearly delighted at her choice. "I have case file pictures in my room. I'll just retrieve them and we can begin our investigations."

"You do that and I'll have my tea," said Joan as she headed back into the kitchen to retrieve her tea which had been sidelined by the phone call.

"I'll be right back," said Sherlock happily as he made his way towards the stairs and then bounced up them like a five year old running to open his Christmas presents.

"Life as normal," sighed Joan happily as she took a sip of her tea. It was strange to think that she'd once thought Sherlock's life so abnormal. Now it felt as natural as breathing to her. Joan did take a deep breath then, enjoying that sense of normalcy, and shaking off the last of her fears and uncertainties. She felt as though her life had been put on pause since finding that lump in her breast. It was a wonderful feeling to know she could get back to the life she loved so much, and with the man who had a huge part of making that life so wonderful.

 **#**

Sherlock finished bounding up the stairs and headed directly into his room. As soon as he was inside his bedroom, he made a beeline for the stack of photos he had resting on his bed. He scooped them up and turned around to head back to Watson. She was going to love this new case. It had so many intriguing elements and nothing was as it seemed. He was excited to show it to her because only Joan would be able to see it as he could. Suddenly the air left Sherlock's lungs in a rush at that thought. His knees buckled and he abruptly found himself crouched in the middle of the room, the photos slipping from his numb hands and scattering themselves around him on the floor. Sherlock put an unsteady hand to the ground and willed himself to breath. It was like he'd suddenly forgotten how to do the simple, involuntary act. Memories of that phone call, of Joan in distress and crying assaulted him. They were tears of relief, but in that moment Sherlock hadn't known that. All he'd known was terror.

He squeezed his eyes closed against the wave of renewed panic which crashed down on him. It was a useless emotion, because there was nothing to be afraid of now, he chastised himself sternly. Only there was. The precedent had been set. Losing Joan from his world, for whatever reason was something Sherlock now knew with great certainty was an unfathomable notion for him now. He'd never wanted to need a person like this. That was the whole point of keeping people at arm's length his entire life. He couldn't hurt them, and they, in turn, couldn't hurt him. It was a plan which had served him well. _Until her_. In those few seconds when he'd feared all the worst there had been a chasm which had opened up in front of him, and Sherlock had felt himself falling, unable to grab hold of anything solid to slow his descent, to save himself. He'd rehearsed a rousing speech in defiance of cancer, just in case the news had been bad, but a speech was one thing. The thought of watching Joan suffer was something which stole any thought processes from him, and if he couldn't offer her his mind, there was nothing else of use to him for her. Sherlock feared that if her prognosis had not been a positive one, he'd have ended up being as big a burden to Joan as the cancer. It was an intolerable thought because Joan deserved so much more than he had to give. Sherlock had always known he was lacking in a great many things, and that had never bothered him before, but it bothered him now, when it came to Joan.

"Sherlock, I've changed my mind," came Joan's voice from outside his door. "How about we do lunch and look at the old case files, by way of a compromise? I'm hungry—"

Sherlock's head snapped up, to see Joan now standing in the doorway to his bedroom.

Worry passed over Joan's features as she looked at him, crouched down in the middle of the room.

Sherlock shook his head at her, not wanting her to see him in this weak moment of self-loathing. "I've dropped the pictures," he said hoarsely, by way of distraction.

Joan, of course, wasn't fooled for a moment. She walked into the room and crouched down in front of him. Her dark gaze locked with his. "I'll help you pick them up," she said quietly.

"That's not your job," he rasped painfully.

"Nothing about you is a job, Sherlock," said Joan calmly, neither one of them talking about the photos.

"Everything about me is work, Watson," Sherlock said harshly.

A soft little smile touched her lips. "Find a job you love, and you'll never work a day in your life."

Fresh pain marked Sherlock's features as he closed his eyes tightly. "Don't love me, Watson, I'm too broken to be loved."

"You shouldn't love me either, what with my family health issues. Aside from the cancer, diabetes is rampant in our family as well."

Sherlock opened his eyes to look at her. "You're just saying that to make me feel better."

"Well, diabetes is a feel good disease," she teased him wryly.

They stared at each other for a long moment.

"Don't leave me," he said abruptly, the emotional timber of his voice softening that demand.

"What if you tell me to go?" Joan asked softly.

"Then you must absolutely ignore me, because clearly that's when I need you the most," said Sherlock unsteadily.

Joan's smile widened. "I am so going to be using that against you in the future."

"I'll recant it… obviously," he warned her.

"Obviously," said Joan, sounding unfazed.

Of course she was unfazed. This woman knew him, inside and out, despite his best attempts to keep a wall between them in the beginning. Now it was him removing that wall brick by brick so he could see her more clearly, not caring that she was being afforded the same view of him. "You're my best friend," said Sherlock raggedly. "My only friend."

"I'm not your only friend, Sherlock," said Joan huskily.

"You're the only one that I—" Sherlock hesitated, trying to find the right word. Most people would have put love in there, but he wasn't utterly convinced of the use of that word. He didn't want to shackle Joan to him with a word he didn't even really understand, and doubted he'd ever fully appreciate. Sherlock searched his vast receptacle of words for the right one to convey this enormous feeling inside of him when it came to her. "Like," he finished off at last. That was probably the lesser word in most people's mind, but as Sherlock had never truly liked anyone else in this world before meeting Joan, it was quite the opposite to him.

"I like you too, Sherlock."

"You realize that makes you somewhat deranged, Watson," he said, almost accusingly. "I am thoroughly unlikeable."

"Only to the untrained eye," said Joan easily. Contrition passed over her face. "I'm sorry I scared you, Sherlock. I'm sorry that I've made you feel things that you're finding hard to process, but I'm not going to apologize for being in your life. I belong here. I'm always going to need you in my life."

"You realize I'm going to use that against you in the future, Watson? When I'm driving you insane and all you want to do is leave and never see me again."

Joan smiled. "I'll recant it then… obviously."

Sherlock swallowed the lump in his throat as they swapped places in revisiting this conversation. "Obviously."

Joan leant forward and pressed her forehead against his, the two of them now kneeling on the ground.

For a moment Sherlock was taken aback by the small intimacy. They'd been touching so much lately. It was new, unsettling even. But the feel of Joan's soft skin pressing against his, the subtle fragrance of her preferred soap in his nostrils overcame Sherlock's hesitations. He leaned into the contact, pressing his forehead more fully against hers. Sherlock closed his eyes, breathing her nearness in, the fear leaving him. There was no conscious thought attached to what happened next. Sherlock blindly sought out her lips, pressing his own against them. His brain was always crowded with thoughts, all tumbling over one another to be heard. The only peace Sherlock had from all that chaos was when he'd taken drugs. That was the only thing which silenced the noise in his head. _Until now._ Kissing Joan, there was no noise, no chaos, only serenity. Peace in its most purist form.

The kiss remained chaste, no open mouths, just his lips moving back and forth against hers in the simplest of pleasures. Conscious thought crept back to Sherlock, whispering to him about Joan, and what she must be thinking right now. Sherlock ended the kiss, opening his eyes, but he remained so close to her that if one of them spoke, their lips would still brush together. He stared down at her, wide-eyed and fearful that she might think that this was some kind of sexual overture on his behalf. Sex would have belittled this moment. Sex was easy, a convenience Sherlock could acquire for himself with little to no effort. He didn't need Joan for sex. He needed her for something much more important than that. Sherlock's desire to have this woman in his life over shadowed any other biological, emotional and psychological imperative he'd ever known in his life. To make this about sex would take away from the importance of what Joan meant to him. A fissure of fear ran down Sherlock's spine that he wouldn't be able to convey that properly to her.

Joan held his gaze steadily as Sherlock held his breath.

"Do you want to try that new café down the street for lunch?"

Joan's quietly question did indeed brush against his lips as she spoke. And it was the most perfect thing he'd ever heard her say. In that one, simple question, Joan had conveyed to him that she understood that kiss. What it meant, and what it didn't mean. Sherlock wasn't going to have to stumble around and try and form some coherency to thoughts that were just actual instincts. Her intuition when it came to him, made Sherlock choke up a bit. No one had ever understood him like Joan did. "Yes," he said hoarsely. They were still impossibly close. Sherlock was finding himself increasingly reluctant to move.

"I'm picking up the photos now," said Joan softly.

"Yes," said Sherlock, but remained perfectly still.

It was Joan who finally did move. She stood up, leaving Sherlock on his knees in front of her.

For a moment Sherlock was overcome with the grace of this woman under what were undoubtedly odd circumstances when it came to him.

"Why does this victim only have three fingers?" asked Joan, looking down at the photo of a partially dissolved corpse at her feet.

A slow smile spread across Sherlock's face. "A most excellent question, Watson. One of many this supposedly solved case has left unanswered."

"Then I guess we've got a lot of work to do before lunch," said Joan calmly.

Sherlock nodded slowly, feeling that familiar thrill of starting a new case, stepping into the unknown. Only now it was even more of a delight, because he wasn't alone. He had someone to share that journey with, and that person was quite simply put, extraordinary. Sherlock stood up, feeling reenergized by their little interlude. "The game is afoot, Watson, we don't have a minute to waste!"

"The game is afoot?" repeated Joan skeptically. "Really?"

"I'm thinking of making it my new catch cry," said Sherlock happily.

Joan didn't look thrilled by that notion. "Okay, but just so you know, it's terrible." She bent down and started to pick up the photos.

"It's a classic in the making," said Sherlock, bending down and retrieving the remaining photos as well. He caught her eye. "Just like us."

"Please God let us not turn out to be as cheesy as 'the game is afoot'," said Joan in vague amusement.

"You cast aside the brilliance you do not understand, Watson," he chided her.

Joan just smiled as they both straightened up, photos in hand. "Then it's very fortunate for you that I understand you then, isn't it, Sherlock Holmes?" With that turned and walked out of the room.

"A fortune beyond measure, Joan Watson," he agreed quietly before following her out of the room and into the strange and wonderful life they were building together.

It was the happiest thought of the day for Sherlock and for many days to come.

 **A/N** **: Thank you all for going on this little journey with me. You're all fabulously awesome. I do have another little idea about another Elementary fic, this time with Sherlock being hurt/in danger and Joan's reaction… and I might even creep over to more Joanlock territory… but I really do need to make some serious progress on my Arrow fic, so I'm going to control myself in that regard and hold back… probably. I don't have notoriously brilliant self-control in this area. But, regardless, thank you all again for reading and I hope to see you again if another Elementary fic does emerge from the depths of my psyche. :D**


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